


Red alert!

by Mrs_Crowley



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Greg Lestrade to the Rescue, Greg is Sweet, M/M, Mycroft is in danger, Panic, Protective Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-24 00:58:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18560686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Crowley/pseuds/Mrs_Crowley
Summary: Greg receives a distress text from Mycroft. ''Red alert'' means ''critical problem''. What is the terrible danger that is threatening the British government? The answer is here!





	Red alert!

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Alerte rouge !](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18546154) by [Mrs_Crowley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Crowley/pseuds/Mrs_Crowley). 



For most people, being a police officer was synonymous with spectacular action, bloody and innovative killings, brutal arrests, stunning fights, choreographed to the nearest millimetre, long exchanges of shots, in The Wild Wild West mode, with incredible high-speed pursuits. And let us not forget the memorable psychopaths and serial killers. Without them, there would be no police force.

This was typically the kind of things that television series had popularized, indiscriminately, for the sole purpose of seducing the crowd. Who would watch a detective show in which characters would spend most of their time sending emails and filling out documents? No one. You'd better watch the poor accountant of a company do the books, in close-up, a deathly silence all around him. Only the sound of calculator would be heard. Even forensic shows were very rhythmic and yet, the reality was far less wonderful.

This fascination with the police work usually began at an early age.

How many children had fun, playing cops and robbers in their schoolyard?  
How many falls and skinned knees had been scolded by displeased parents?  
How many laughter had erupted between the two game participants?

Far too much to be numbered.

For some adults – mostly women – the police work was a delightful fantasy, just like the fantasy of the doctor, the airline pilot, the postman or the handyman. The uniform attracted more than one. Unfortunately, the uniform wasn't everything. On the contrary, it was just a packaging that could conceal a very disappointing gift. All policemen weren't built like impressive mountains of muscles, with nonexistent fat and stunning beauty. The same went for their intimate equipment. No truncheon of competition that will make you scream with pleasure.

Policemen weren't supermen, far from it. They were quite simply humans. They were certainly even more human than the others. You had to be very strong to handle the stress.

Seeing corpses, more or less decomposed.  
Seeing bodies in unlikely positions.  
Seeing people murdered in a cold and violent way.

Death spared no one. No one was safe. Death made no distinction. Everyone could be her target: young, old, men, women, children...

Confronting the family. The one that remaind.  
Picking the right words to announce the bad news.  
Picking the right words to reassure them.  
Confronting the family. The one that discovered the dead.  
Picking the right words to relieve their guilt.  
Shaking hands. Embracing them.  
Sharing their pain and their distress.  
Picking the right words to earn their trust.  
Assuring them that they will not stand in the dark.  
Assuring them that the culprit will be arrested as soon as possible.  
Assuring them that justice will be done, even if it was a small consolation.

For authentic police officers, like Greg, it was a job like no other. It was first and foremost a vocation. Something that took possession of your heart and soul. Something that you couldn't give up, under pain of death. Greg's life was tied to the Yard's. It was his oxygen. It was his energy. It was the reason that pushed him out of bed, every morning. He knew he was going to help someone. He couldn't ignore the distress cries of the victims and families. When Greg came into a crime scene, he saw not only a body, horribly damaged, but a human being, with a past. A person who would have had a future, ahead of him. Someone who had family and friends. He saw all the lives broken by only one person. A bad decision that led to several disasters. The domino effect.

It was up to him and his colleagues to provide answers.  
It was up to him and his colleagues to find the culprit.

Yes.

Gregory Lestrade couldn't have certainly done another job.

His vocation.  
His destiny.  
His passion.  
His life.

With his joys and his crap.

Crap like now.

Greg was in the middle of a deadly fight against his worst enemy: Paperwork! This fucking creature was tirelessly attacking him, invading every inch of his desk, with a sadistic pleasure.  
She was scattering all over the place, even erasing the color of this piece of furniture. Greg couldn't even remember its color, underneath this fucking mountain of paper. If you were looking for a part of the Amazon rainforest, no need to take a plane to Brazil. You only had to enter the New Scotland Yard building and you will find nearly a tenth of the said forest, trapped between its walls.

Public administration was obsessed with paper. Official letters, urgent requests, forms, all were mandatory computer-taped THEN printed, THEN signed THEN sent. By e-mail (long live the scanner!) AND by paper mail. Waste of time. Waste of energy. Waste of public money. Sometimes Greg regretted his rank of inspector. When he had been a sergeant, he had had less administrative work and therefore more time to devote to his investigations.

He believed so.

Fuck, he had become a pencil pusher.

**_Bzzz Bzzz_ **

A familiar sound cut him off while he was filling out the form n°34B879-001C. In triplicate.

  
His cell phone was vibrating somewhere on his desk. The object was invisible. He had completely disappeared, absorbed and digested by the dangerous paper.

The police officer let out a curse and he fumbled his desk, searching for a significant lump in the middle of his Capernaum of cellulose. He pushed back the Brady case and he grabbed what he was looking for.

He immediately froze when he read the text:

**"Red Alert. Home. -MH"**

A red alert was the Mycroftian equivalent of an **"I AM IN SERIOUS DANGER, COME AT ONCE. I NEED YOUR HELP ME. YOU ARE MY ONE AND ONLY HOPE"**. Since the two men were a couple, they had developed simple and effective codes to avoid attracting the attention of the others. Especially Sherlock's attention.

They couldn't let Sherlock find these messages on Greg's phone. Sherlock had the unfortunate tendency of going through the inspector's pockets, without his consent, as soon as they met. A way to relieve his boredom.

Most of the time, it was his business card that paid the heaviest price. Greg had already made a dozen of loss reports to his superiors. Greg never said that his badges were stolen by Sherlock. It could get him into a lot of trouble.

As a result, Greg remained bravely silent and endured the sarcastic remarks of his colleagues, without flinching.

 _''Again?"_  
_"One day you'll lose your head."_  
_"What a scatterbrain."_  
_"You must be a disaster to handle."_  
_"How do you do in your work?"_  
_"Sally must suffer with you."_  
_"As long as you don't lose your gun..."_

Now he was paying for the replacement of each card with his own money. Only the first time was free, which was the case of very few things.

However, today, Mycroft didn't use one of his long coded sentences that always gave Greg a hard time. He needed time to decipher them. He shouldn't be wrong. He had to be absolutely sure of him. It would be unfortunate if Greg went to The Diogenes Club for a brew while Mycroft was expecting him for dinner, at a restaurant.

To be honest, it had happened once.

No.  
On the contrary.  
For once, the British government was surprisingly straightforward.

The case was extremely serious.

The red alert was on the top rung on the problem scale. It was the Mycroftian equivalent of the different levels of a terrorist threat in the United Kingdom. On top of that, there was even a colour chart, making the picture more meaningful for Greg. Sometimes, Mycroft played him for a dummy. A recurring clumsiness. Mycroft had even sent him a summary table.

The Mycroftian scale of problems

On the other hand, he hadn't granted him a dictionary for their coded language. A Mycroft-Greg Pocketbook. It was a great pity because Greg didn’t have the memory of a Holmes.

Greg wasn’t perfect. Far from it.

Nevertheless, when it came to Sherlock or Mycroft, he never wavered for a second.

The policeman rose to his feet and he stormed out of his office, grabbing his black overcoat, on the way. The coat rack fell behind him, following his abruptness. Greg paid it no attention, fleeing the place. Sally screamed in his back.

"I'LL BE BACK LATER !" he shouted, without looking back and he rushed to the stairs, not wishing to waste his time with the elevator. It was too risky and too slow. There were only six floors to go down, on the double. Nothing was better to boost your stamina and cardiopulmonary capacity. With the Holmes, you had to have a strong heart!

During his descent, he felt the vibrations of his phone, once again, in the inside pocket of his overcoat. He ignored them for the moment and he accelerated the pace, lengthening his stride. On the ground floor, he pushed the heavy door of the entrance, his eyes fixed on his smartphone.

**"Hurry. - MH"**

Greg could hear the plea in Mycroft's voice. He could even imagine him, dying, in the hallway, covered in his own blood. The policeman rushed towards his car, parked on the street.

**"Take shelter. I'm coming. - GL"**

Greg knew there were secret passages, hidden rooms and even a panic room inside Mycroft's house.

Mycroft had shown him everything when he had finally agreed to let him in. A long guided tour of his house, very complete. Greg couldn't forget this day. The tour had ended in the master bedroom, for a long and complete visit of his magnificent owner. Greg had enjoyed his visit, from top to bottom.

Especially his bottom.

Mycroft was so beautiful. Even more when he was reaching orgasm.

Greg never tired of him. He hoped to enjoy Mycroft for years to come.

Fuck! What if it was the end?!

Someone broke into Mycroft’s house to hurt him. There was no doubt in the policeman’s mind.

What if he never saw him again?!

The inspector crushed the accelerator pedal, setting a new speed record. He managed to reach Mycroft's house in less than 15 minutes, crossing London from east to west, without hitting a single pedestrian on his way. A real feat! He deserved a decoration from the Queen or a mention in the Guinness Book of Records.

Tires screeching, he parked across the sidewalk, nearly smashing the bumper into the magnificent wrought iron gateway of Mycroft's home. With fear in his heart, he got out of his car, letting the door open, and he rushed inside, gun already drawn.

Once in the hallway, he paused, all senses in alert. His breathing was fast, too noisy to his liking. He held his breath. He couldn't hear the slightest sound. The silence was total in the house, like inside a cathedral. Greg frowned. It was a very, very, very bad sign.

He took a look to his right. The electronic security box was in good condition. He immediately noticed a significant green light. It meant that the dual video-surveillance and security systems had been shut down.

Not by him.

Usually, after using his own keys to enter Mycroft's house - when he was naturally allowed to do so - he had to type a personal code to shut down the security. If he didn't do it within a minute, a silent alarm was triggered and an assault team was dispatched here to investigate.

_Hello, guys. Why am I here? Well, to be honest, I... No, please, don't search my... yes, there's lube in my bag. Do you want to know why I-- ? No. Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, the British Government is waiting for my special secret services. Ahahaha. Oh fuck, he's going to kill me. And, if I'm still alive, maybe fuck me. It'd be great!_

Dating the British government could sometimes be tricky. Even more when his brother was Sherlock Holmes.

No noise.  
No alarm.

It wasn’t good.  
Not good at all!

Anxiety increased in Gregory. He closed his eyes for a moment and released his breath. His lungs were burning. His heart was pounding in his chest. His blood was boiling inside him.

Was it too late?

Slowly, he began to inspect the ground floor, in a professional mode. He remained on his guard, tormented by horrible visions of death.

Mycroft bathed in his blood.  
Mycroft disarticulated at the foot of the stairs.  
Mycroft, agonizing in his arms, with an unrecognizable face.

Very joyful, wasn't it?

''Gregory?" A soft voice suddenly called him, in the distance.

The policeman blinked, surprised. Was he dreaming or ...?

"Gregory, I'm upstairs." The voice insisted using the same tone.

He wasn't dreaming, hallucinating or fantasizing!

This was the voice of his dear beloved!

"Mycroft!" Greg shouted, relieved. At top speed, he rushed to the wooden staircase, which led to the first floor of the house. He stopped when his eyes landed on the tall silhouette, on the landing.

The owner of the place, aka the British Government, aka Wikipedia, aka The Queen, aka The Iceman, aka Antarctica, aka Mycroft Holmes, aka Brother Mine, aka Myke, aka My' for Gregory, was waiting for him, in a most incongruous outfit.

Humans used to see the elegant 40-year-old always dressed in one of his expensive three-piece suits. His protective armour reinforced the rigid and icy side of his _public_ personality. The mask of ice that he dropped on very rare occasions. To see the real Mycroft, you had to be a privileged person, aka Gregory Lestrade.

Nevertheless, at this very moment, the Iceman had melted, leaving his place to a highly ludicrous version. Mycroft would certainly have his place in the top 3 of the quirks that Greg had witnessed. And he had seen things in his long career!

Mycroft Holmes was half naked, a tiny bath towel - the one he usually used to wipe his hands - around his waist. The ridiculous piece of terry cloth was hiding his royal anatomy. His dark hair was glueing to his head, the whole overcoming with shampoo. With a cherry on top, it would have looked like a black forest gateau, covered with whipped cream. A delicious dessert.

Unfortunately, Mycroft wasn't very appetizing, despite Greg's physical attraction to him. Although he had already seen him, in his birthday suit, many times before today, it was the first time that Mycroft appeared in such a state of panic.

Even an overdosing Sherlock didn’t destabilise him as much.

What the hell had happened?

"Don’t just stand there." Mycroft’s tone had returned to a colder taciturn, which pulled Greg out of his apathy. The policeman finally began his climb. The tension was returning into his body.

''I urgently requested your presence for a most unpleasant case. I noticed a vicious intrusion in my bathroom, the very moment I was the most vulnerable. An evidence that you can observe with your own eyes." The politician said, gesturing to emphasise his neglected appearance.

Greg quickly removed his coat and placed it on the other man’s shoulders. Mycroft was shivering, his lips taking a worrying bluish tint. Immediately, Mycroft sighed with pleasure, seeming to appreciate the gesture, and he tightened the garment around his body.

Someone broke into his bathroom and attacked him under his shower.

''God only knows how, but I've managed to perform a heroic act and to trap my unpleasant guest in the bathroom, It's now your responsibility and your duty to dispose of my visitor. Earnestly. "

"Count on me." The policeman assured him, with a nod and he bravely approached Mycroft’s private bathroom. He entered the master bedroom, which he knew perfectly, and he made his way toward the varnished wooden door, determined.

Mycroft was on his heels, unable to keep his teeth from chattering. Mister United Kingdom had lost his pride.

Greg pulled his gun out of his holster. The case was a serious matter. He put his other hand on the handle, turning it silently. He pushed the door a few inches, taking a quick look inside. The water continued to flow in the shower, but the policeman detected no sign of the mysterious intruder.

He had to be in a corner that he couldn’t see at the moment.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to Mycroft, questioning. Mycroft waved at him, encouraging him with a frown. The policeman obeyed obediently and he entered the room, his gun in a hand, ready to shoot.

And...

Nothing!

There was no one in the bathroom.

**BOUM.**

Greg flinched, startled and he cursed when the door suddenly closed behind him.

"MYCROFT!" he shouted, trying to open the door without success. Someone was keeping it tightly shut, preventing him from escaping the room.

It was panic in his head!

THAT FUCKING INTRUDER GOT UP AFTER BEING STUNNED BY MYCROFT AND NOW HE...

"I'M GOING TO SHOOT THROUGH THE DOOR!" he warned, his voice resonating like the thunder during a stormy evening.

"I forbid you, Gregory." Mycroft snapped on the other side. "This door dates from the 18th-century, and it is absolutely out of the question that I let you damage this magnificent piece of my ancestral history. Please, Gregory, I'm begging you. Calm down and observe the room more closely."

"But Mycroft! The room is empty! Your intruder left when you were -... !"

Wait a minute, wait a minute.

Why did Mycroft prevent him from opening the door?

How could he have locked up the intruder?

The lock of the door was located inside the bathroom...

"Preposterous, Gregory. The intruder doesn't possess the ability to open a door. This action requires strength and a relevant an-"

"REGINALD MYCROFT MEREDITH HOLMES!!! DID YOU MAKE ME COME HERE TO GET RID OF A FUCKING SPIDER?!"

"Gregory, I'm suffering from acute Arachnophobia. You're aware of my disgraceful secret. I can die, in excruciating pain. The red alert is reserved for life-threatening situations, like this one." Mycroft simpered, still on the other side of the door. ''You didn't have to lose your temper like that. I didn't confess the completeness of my identity to you, for this purpose.I'm not a child that you have to scold. I'm the man of your life. The only one man of your life. You swore to serve me and to save me from every peril on my way. This "fucking spider", as you called it, is actually an Eratigena Atrica. Standing shamelessly between my person and the end of my cleaning process, I summoned you to my residence to accomplish your duty. Be rid of it."

Gregory was chomping at the bit, frustrated.

"You're exaggerating!" was all he could tell him.

"I implore you, lover mine. Rescue me. Deliver me from this terrible peril."

"Pffff...Now that I'm here, I don't have much choice. Do I? I understand why you asked me to come. You would have looked clever, in front of your secret services. I wonder how you were doing before we started dating." The policeman sighed as he put his gun back into his holster, looking for the famous spider.

"I shall not answer your unformulated question." The doorknob squeaked, proving that Mycroft had finally let go. "Please, do hurry up, I'm frozen and I have an important appointment that I cannot miss.''

"You know if you're not happy, you can -"

"I do completely trust you, Gregory." Mycroft cut him, knowing what the second civil servant was going to say.

"Much better." Meticulously, Greg searched the bathroom. In vain. "I can't find it, My'."

''Impossible, Gregory. The door was immediately closed after my unpleasant discovery. Eratigena Atrica couldn't beat my speed. I have never been swifter, in my entire life. Eratigena Atrica must be hidden in this restricted perimeter. Only, fourteen square metres, to be precise. The places where Eratigena Atrica can hide are legion. You have to be more proactive. You have to pursue research. I hear nothing relevant, from my current position.''

Greg chewed his lower lip. Mycroft was really good at making him feel incompetent. Out of respect for the 18th-century door, and because he knew Mycroft, the police officer didn't pull his gun and shoot them both. And still, he wanted to. Strange, wasn't it?

''Fine. I'll keep searching.'' Greg groaned in obedience. He couldn't escape his fate. Using the window was impossible. The passage was too narrow for his built. He had to find it.

''If it's absolutely necessary, I can describe Eratigena Atrica in the tiniest detail.''

''For someone with acute Arachnophobia, I'm surprised that you're able to give me a full description of a spider.'' Greg didn't say he wasn't stupid enough to not know what a spider looked like. ''How long did you look at it?''

''Being provided with an extraordinary eidetic memory, two seconds are sufficient to record everything my vision perceives. Whatever the emotions I experience at the exact same moment. This ability is more a burden than a gift.''

Greg could hear a hint of sadness in Mycroft's voice. The policeman knew that the politician was unable to forget the smallest thing. He could store his memories in boxes, in a distant part of his brilliant mind, but he could never erase them completely. Nothing was never ephemeral for a Holmes.

When the night came, some pieces of his past came to the surface, making Mycroft scream in his arms.

''Can the witness give me a sketch of his eight-legged attacker?" Greg joked, hoping to erase the sadness he had perceived in Mycroft. He was immediately rewarded with a grunt. It worked!

''Hmph. The giant house spider, now with the scientific name Eratigena atrica, is one of the biggest spiders of Central and Northern Europe. Its coloration is mainly dark brown. On its sternum is a lighter marking, with three light spots on each side. The opisthosoma features a lighter middle line with six "spots" on each side. The giant house spider has the same coloration as the domestic house spider, Tegenaria domestica; it has earthy tones of brown and muddy red or yellow. They also have conspicuously hairy legs, palps and abdomen. Despite its English name, this species is not the largest species in the genus (that being Tegenaria parietina). The female body size can reach 18.5 millimetres (0.73 in) in length, with males having a slightly smaller body at around 12 to 15 millimetres (0.47 to 0.59 in) in length. The female leg span is typically around 45 millimetres (1.8 in). The leg span of the male is highly variable, with spans between 25 to 75 millimetres (0.98 to 2.95 in) being common. Its eight eyes are of equal size and are arranged in two rows.''

"Why do I feel like I'm hearing a Wikipedia article?"

Certainly because it was the case.

"Given its approximate size, twelve millimetres, it must have been a male. The giant house spider's original habitat consists mostly of caves, or dry forests where it is found under rocks, but it is a common spider in people's homes. The bite of this species does not pose a threat to humans or pets, and it is generally reluctant to bite, preferring to escape. With all this information, I can assume that your target is hiding near a water point, in the shadow."

"Ok, ok, I'm looking near a water point, in the shadow." In a bathroom. Easy-peasy. He approached the shower to turn off the water. "Hmm, My'? What should I do after finding it? Should I shoot it, without warning?"

"Do not be grotesque, Gregory. In this confined space, a ricochet might hurt you. It will be extremely difficult, even for me, to explain the situation to the relevant authorities."

_Good afternoon, Doctor. Detective Inspector Lestrade was injured in the line of duty. A ricochet in the thigh following an exchange of fire with a spider, in my bathroom. Yes. I'm extremely serious. Would you please dress his wound and take care of him? I have to go._

"In that case, should I order it to get down on his knees before handcuffing it?"

"Not only, Eratigena Atrica will not understand your request, but your handcuffs are not adapted to fit its morphology.""

Greg couldn't help himself from smiling, amused by their conversation. Mycroft was extremely serious. Sometimes, it was so ridiculous that the inspector wondered if Mycroft wasn't doing it on purpose, to please him more.

"Get rid of Eratigena Atrica." The British government stated. This time, he seemed weary. If he didn't catch pneumonia, they would be very lucky. A sick Mycroft was one of seven Lestradian Plagues. Something that Greg wanted to avoid at all costs. He continued to explore, even pushing away a piece of furniture.

"I feel like we're planning an assassination."

"I'm not asking you to kill Eratigena atrica."

''Good. Because, between you and me, I didn't intend - Oh! Hello, sweet lady!'' the policeman happily declared when he located the spider. Bollocks! It was HUGE! No wonder why Mycroft was scared like hell. Its long, dark legs clenched on the beige tiles. It seemed to have felt that a danger was coming "Don't be afraid, sweetie, I'm gonna get you out of here."

"Please, do not call Eratigena Atrica that, Gregory." Mycroft complained, grunting distinctly from the bedroom.

"Oh yes, you said it was a male. Come and see, darling." The policeman corrected, wondering how he was going to force it out. He wasn't going to catch it with his bare hands! No!

"Gregory, did you just address Eratigena Atrica by using one of the affectionate pet names you gratify me daily?"

Oops!

"I misspoke!" Greg said, making a face that Mycroft couldn't see.

Mycroft remained awfully quiet behind the door.

Great, now, he was sulking like a child. Knowing him, he had crossed his arms over his chest and had stomped, under the displeasure.

"I'm almost done... !" Greg tried, hoping it would make him forget his fatal mistake. It wasn't the silver fox's fault. He used to give people affectionate pet names. Okay, in general, he kept them to himself, but sometimes he let out a ''buddy'', a ''mate'', a ''dearie'', a ''my darling'', a ''my sweetheart,'' a ''sweetie'', from time to time.

Of course, calling the horrible spider, which had scared Mycroft, _darling_ wasn't the idea of the century.

A fair point for England.

Removing one of his shoes, Greg tried to invite the spider to move, towards the window. "Oh no! Not that way! Please!" he said, panicked. The hairy beast took the wrong direction. It was dangerously approaching the door.

Oh my fucking God!

If it slipped underneath the door, Mycroft would scream and run away without him. He would never again enter his bedroom without seeing a proof of its capture or demise.

And in the meantime, no more sex.

_OH FUCK!_

"Gregory? What is the precise nature of the problem?'' Mycroft asked, anxious. He seemed to have understood there was something wrong in the bathroom.

"Everything is fine and under control, hon'. Our mutual friend is just not very cooperative, Ahaha ... what a surprise!" The inspector assured, bravely placing his foot between the creature and the door to prevent it from running away. The spider climbed onto his shoe, taking a break. Greg used this opportunity to move it away from the door. The spider didn't flinch under the motion, remaining perfectly still. "Perfect, we're almost there."

Greg stepped forward, getting closer to the window. He opened it and the beast came down from his shoe, moving away from him. "Hey, don't you dare!" he growled, annoyed. He used the shoe he was holding in his hand to pick it up. The spider didn't hesitate to hide inside, seeking shelter. "I caught it!" he said proudly.

"Congratulations, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I hope you do not intend to adopt it," Mycroft replied, without sharing his enthusiasm. As proof, he used his rank and his last name.

Now, it was Greg's turn to sulk, a slight pout on his lips.

"Rest assured, Mister Holmes. With you in my life, I don't need another lover," the inspector retorted. He delicately disposed of their undesirable host. He didn't throw the spider out the window. He didn't want to kill it. He put it on the windowsill before closing it, trapping it outside.

His mission accomplished, he put his shoe back and he knocked on the door.

''It's ok, love. Our lovely friend is outside. You can finish your shower. However, don't open your window for the moment.'' He said, hoping that he had won the right to leave.

The handle turned and Greg took a step back. Mycroft opened it very slowly. He was still wearing the inspector’s coat on his shoulders. His deep grey eyes plunged into Greg's hazelnut orbs.

He seemed so miserable.

"I'm very grateful to you, Gregory." he whispered, with an extremely weak voice.

"No need to tha -"

The policeman couldn't finish his sentence as delicate arms surrounded him. Mycroft's thin body pressed against his, momentarily taking his breath away.

''I am sincerely sorry, Gregory." the politician began, muttering his words directly into his ear. Greg put an arm behind him, caressing him gently. Mycroft shuddered. "I am afraid that, one day, you will get tired of me and my every whim. I am acutely aware of my natural tendency for exaggeration."

"My', you may be smarter than me, sometimes you say shit bigger than the two of us combined." the policeman certified, rubbing his cheek against his.

Mycroft often doubted the validity of their relationship. He wasn't accustomed to close relationships. Before Greg, he was satisfied with ephemeral, anonymous, unique and nocturnal encounters. A way to release the pressure. To forget everything. To feel alive. To exist.

He was afraid of suffering. Afraid of getting attached. Afraid of being weak.

However, love was the most powerful of emotions.

Mycroft had finally succumbed to love.

Oscar Wilde, one of Mycroft's favorite writers, had written;

_**“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.”** _

Oscar Wilde would have been so damn proud of Mycroft.

Despite his reluctance and his concerns, Love was exactly what Mycroft needed.

"You were totally right earlier, My'. I promised to be always here for you. To come to your rescue, in the middle of the day or the night. To drop everything to save Sherlock’s arse. I’ve been doing this since you entered my life, almost 10 years ago. Even before our current relationship. Nothing will change the situation, Mycroft. There aren't whims. There are simple gestures. Common gestures. Normal gestures. I’d be a terrible partner if I refused to give up my job to hunt a dangerous spider in your bathroom."

"I still do not comprehend how you manage to -"

"There's no mystery in this, Mycroft, I love you, that's all."

Mycroft tightened his grip around him, breathing hard against his skin. Greg said nothing, patiently waiting for Mycroft's reaction.

The politician exhaled slowly and he relaxed, straightening so he could look at the police officer. He gently stroked his cheek with the tips of his long, delicate, cold fingers. He stared at him for a moment, pensive, his gaze into the distance.

Then, with blatant tenderness, he whispered these words:

"I love you, Gregory."

A sweet kiss sealed his words, evaporating all his fears.

A smile illuminated Greg's face, who was savouring this blessed moment. He loved when Mycroft let go of his emotions. When he dropped his icy mask to show himself as he really was. Mycroft wasn't cold inside. He was made of pure love.

The kiss lasted for only a few seconds, but it was more than enough for Greg's happiness. He enjoyed the simple things of everyday life. These tender moments that never made him regret his choice. On the contrary. He congratulated himself for having taken the first step. For having dared to break the ice. Literally and figuratively.

The two men were meeting, with great difficulty. Not enough regularly to everyone's taste. Work was an important part of their lives. They knew how to take advantage of these rare moments of peace.

''If I may allow myself, may I require another favor?'' Mycroft asked, his hands on the policeman's shoulders. His grey eyes were wandering over the room, momentarily ignoring his interlocutor. His fingers were shaking, patting the broad shoulders. Two obvious signs that betrayed his nervousness. Greg smiled softly and he ran a hand through his dark hair to remove the excess shampoo.

"Sure, My'. Anything you want."

The grey orbs immediately returned to him.

"I would appreciate it highly if you remain here with me. The time required to complete my cleaning process.'' The British government asked. He failed to hide his embarrassment.

Greg immediately understood the purpose of the request. Mycroft wasn't peaceful. He was afraid of being attacked a second time. Although Greg had managed to get rid of a first spider, Mycroft was still considering the possibility of a second intruder, lurking in the shadows of his bathroom.

_Cute._

"No problem, My'. I love playing your private bodyguard." assured the policeman, with a grin. Of course, his words weren't as innocent as they seemed to be. In addition to his incisive humour, the policeman handled the double entendre perfectly.

As usual, Mycroft ignored it.

"Thank you, Gregory." Mycroft replied, returning his coat. Then, he approached the shower, finally removing the tiny white towel around his hips.

Mycroft was a modest man.

Even with his lover in the piece, he took his shower, without facing him.

Greg didn't take offence.

He sat on the corner of the cast iron bathtub and he carefully watched him. Through the transparent window, he enjoyed the spectacle offered. Mycroft had the most adorable bottom in the world. They looked like peaches. They were round, firm, generous, juicy and sweet. They were made to be cherished and...bitten.

Bitten with love!

Two delicate hands, with long, slender fingers, slipped over the two sexy plumpness, rubbing them for Greg's visual pleasure.

The policeman breathed out and he stirred on the bathtub, uncomfortable. He was starting to feel the excitement, growing deep inside of him. A gentle heat was spreading through his body and he could no longer detach his eyes from this particular area. He was hypnotized, unable to look away.

Unfortunately, the massage ended too quickly, in the opinion of Greg. The hands quit the magnificent milky glut -

 _Glut- ?_  
_Gluteus?_  
_Milky gluteus?_

_Damn, Mycroft had tainted his own vocabulary!_

The gluteal muscles are a group of three muscles which make up the buttocks: the gluteus maximus, gluteus medius and gluteus minimus.

_Great!_

The gorgeous arse of...

_Fine!_

The hands quit this wonderful light-coloured bottom, worthy of a Greek statue, to soap another area, out of reach of his eyes.

The front of his body.

His big co-...

_Enough, Greg!_

Greg looked away, staring at the wall. He was this close to entering Myc...to entering the shower cubicle! He knew perfectly he couldn't do so. Mycroft had an important appointment. He would never agree to be late for that reason. Greg had to contain his animal impulses and stay focused on his difficult mission.

Protecting Mycroft from spiders.

The minutes passed slowly and slowly and...

Mycroft didn't get out.

It wasn't normal, Greg remarked.

He frowned and...

_OH FUCK !_

The hands were back, rubbing more generously the delicious curves.

_Relax._

_Take it easy._

Mycroft was obsessive.

It was absolutely possible that he washed his whole body several times in a row, to make sure he was really clean.

…...............

…........ !!

_NO?!_

And if it was a silent call?

Mycroft never directly asked for his touch.

He was more subtle.

Far too subtle.

So subtle that...

"Aaaah..."

A melodious moan escaped suddenly from the shower cubicle.

It was definitely a call!

Greg jumped quickly to his feet, removed all his clothes, throwing them across the room and he pressed against the glass door, completely naked, panting hotly

Steam immediately formed.

"Gregory?" Mycroft called naively, turning to him.

He observed him from top to bottom and from bottom to top, serious and disinterest.

"You're not wearing any clothing. Are you feeling feverish?"

The tone was teasing.

A discreet smile stretched his lips.

Mycroft was exulting.

Greg knew it.

He wanted to say something back, but he just could not.

His mouth was horribly dry.

He could only stare at Mycroft, wide-eyed.

The demon of lust had taken possession of his body.

Oh, Greg felt pathetic and miserable.

Naked, excited, silent, and crushed against the wrong side of the shower.

He was like a fish out of his jar. He would die if he didn't regain his aquatic environment.

Mycroft's smile widened and he pressed his lips against the glass, right where Greg's open mouth was. A kiss that the policeman couldn't feel. Greg moaned in his turn, claiming the right to enter the shower. He closed his eyes for a moment, scratching the glass surface. His body was trembling with excitement.

It was so fucking hard.

 ** _He_** was so fucking hard.

Mycroft could be so cruel when he wanted to.

Despite this, the politician was so fucking sexy and so fucking hard-on!

Mycroft knew how to make him crazy.

Greg was the most volunteer puppet.

His puppet.

"What are you waiting for, Gregory? Shall I send you an official invitation through the press? Shall I require a consent to _**search**_ , in triplicate, to the Court of Justice?" He asked, his warm voice purring with amusement.

Mycroft didn't have to tell him twice.

Greg opened the door feverishly. Mycroft stepped back, pressing against the opposite wall, and he raised his arms as a sign of invitation. The grey orbs shone brightly, returning the animal passion that possessed Greg.

"Your lack of responsiveness is disappointing." Mycroft whispered, while Greg pressed painfully against him. His thin arms surrounded his strong and powerful body.

A groan echoed sensually in the shower cubicle.

"You were unmistakably more prompt earlier." Mycroft sighed in his ear.

Greg plowed his neck with his lips and teeth. He vaguely heard what Mycroft was telling him

''I am... compelled to... create a special alert. Hmm... The scarlet alert for... aaaah... in case of a... hmmm... sexual... problem... aaaah... GREGORYYYYYYYY !!"

Greg bit his shoulder, to silence him.

When was he going to stop being so serious?

_Fuck, Mycroft!_

"Hmm..."

Mycroft seemed to understand Greg's silent message and he started participating. He raised one long leg and he gripped Greg's wide waist. Greg sighed with pleasure, rubbing against him.

"Scarlet alert...Arse."

_Fuck yeah, My'!_

Greg pulled him closer, putting his big hands on his lovely buttocks. He massaged the curves in a possessive way. Feverishly. Oh yes. If Greg could create a cult to celebrate Mycroft's beautiful arse, he would.

His bum was a marvel!

"Hurry. Appointment.''

The policeman groaned. He hated being pressed for time.

Short on time. Tight schedule. Totally Mycroft.

He loved taking his time, discovering and rediscovering this body he loved so much. He could never get tired of him. Reluctantly, he slid his hand further south. Mycroft clung tightly to him and he raised his second leg, trapping the policeman between his alabaster thighs.

The weight was bearable for Greg. Mycroft was much lighter than Sherlock suggested. It was a pleasure for him to recall his weight problems to his older brother, throwing him harsh remarks, in private and in public. Nevertheless, with his current knowledge, the policeman understood the very particular way of thinking of the Holmes. He knew what was behind Sherlock's vicious words.

Concern.

Worries.

The youngest Holmes didn't want to see his brother suffer from his overweight again. Mycroft never spoke of his childhood, but Greg was fairly experienced to guess that the period was excruciatingly painful for the other man. Even if he didn't say it, Mycroft still had complexes about his body, using strategists to hide it. It had taken Greg some time to tame Mycroft, to give him enough self-confidence before he accepted to reveal completely himself.

Making love in total darkness, without touching and discovering parts of his partner, had been a miracle. It had taken a lot of composure to achieve it. At the slightest mistake, Mycroft closed like an oyster and he implored him to stop, forcing him to leave, close to tears.

"My unrivalled Gregory." Mycroft sighed, throwing his head back. His neatly cut nails stuck into the flesh of the policeman's back, gaining a squeak.

"My wonderful Mycroft." the policeman imitated, finding his voice again. The sudden pain had awakened him from his carnal and silent torpor. He straightened up, looking for the politician's lips, and he kissed him.

Soft. Peaceful. Loving.

His passionate eagerness seemed to have calmed down.

Mycroft's skilled fingers stroked briefly his neck and they slipped into his thick silvery hair, clinging to them tightly.

"Hmm...Do you remember your last text, Gregory?" Mycroft questioned. His exquisite lips flitted lovingly against those of the policeman, varying the pressure of his gentle caresses.

"No." Greg sighed comfortably against his mouth. He didn't give a shit about what Mycroft was asking him for.

His mind couldn't focus on the past.

Only the present mattered.

Mycroft's precious body sharpening warmly against him.

His slender legs holding jealously his sturdy waist.

His light kisses teasing tenderly his mouth.

His elegant hands playing softly with his hair.

His divine masculine attributes standing proudly against his belly.

"Take shelter. I'm coming." Mycroft reminded him before pulling his hair, forcing him to look him straight in the eyes. The policeman's heart missed a few beats. Mycroft's grey eyes were fogged with desire. Greg held his breath, motionless, waiting for the coup de grace.

''Take shelter inside me, Gregory. Come deep inside me. Inside me. Now.''

_Take shelter inside me, Gregory._

_Come deep inside me._

_Inside me._

_Now_

…................... !

These were the last words the policeman's brain could record before everything became blurry. A whirlwind of pure emotions got the better of him, taking him to the ultimate firmament of pleasure.

For his part, Mycroft's eidetic memory enabled him to collect all the highly obscene data of their love-making. He kept them preciously in a corner of his head, knowing exactly where to find them if he wanted to relive them.

After his shower, Mycroft went to his appointment, 24 minutes late, letting Gregory cool off, in his bed.

Her hostess forgave him willingly, noticing the stiffness in the movements of her favorite official.

God save the Queen.

''Happy birthday, Your Majesty. ''

May Gregory Lestrade save Mycroft Holmes.

Especially from spiders!

 

****

**Bonus.**

The following day, Greg received an enhanced version of the famous Mycroftian scale of problems.

Needless to say that Greg really enjoyed Mycroft's new sense of priorities.

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! I did it! My first English Mystrade one-shot! I hope you enjoyed it just as much as I did. I laughed a lot. If it's your case too, I'm very happy. Do not hesitate to leave me comments. A big thank you to Lady_in_black who was my beta. I ask your forgiveness for the remaining grammatical mistakes.


End file.
